


The Twilight Girl

by riventhorn



Category: Warrior Scarlet - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: Drem has always tried to scale the high wall that stands between him and his Warrior Scarlet. He has always striven to belong to the Clan. But Blai, who was not born to the Clan, believes she has no hope of ever belonging.
Relationships: Blai/Drem (Warrior Scarlet), Drem & Vortrix (Warrior Scarlet)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Sutcliff Swap 2020





	The Twilight Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this story, Tanaqui! Warrior Scarlet has so many interesting secondary characters, and I enjoyed this opportunity to explore my take on Blai. In re-reading the book, I was struck by the themes of conformity that run through it but also the potential of effecting change from the inside. I was also somewhat dissatisfied with the conclusion to Blai and Drem's relationship, which feels a bit too easy and simple to me. I decided to set this fic during the period from just after Drem has failed his wolf-slaying and then extend it slightly beyond where the book ends to both explore those themes but also to give a little more resolution to Blai and Drem. 
> 
> Many thanks to Isis for being both my beta and wonderful co-mod!

Blai remains crouched in the shadows when Drem plunges into the night. He has failed his wolf slaying and must go to the Little Dark People. 

A thin, tearing scream startles her, draws her attention away from the door. She watches as Sabra darts forward, only to be caught by Drustic. Sabra weeps, scratching at the arms of her oldest child.

“Na, na, my mother, there is no good that you can do!” Drustic says.

Blai sees it in his eyes—a resigned acceptance. That same acceptance is in the Grandfather’s shoulders as he hunches toward the fire. 

Sabra wants to fight against that acceptance, wants to rend into pieces with her clawing nails, shout it away with her breaking voice. 

That same wild impulse lives in Blai, a black, pulsing, tangled knot. It has been there for a long time. Ever since she realized that the people whose house-place she lived in would always look at her and think, “You are not one of us.” Because she came from Outside. 

At last, Sabra sags in Drustic’s arms, her sobs growing softer. She knows well enough what Blai has come to learn: Alone, you will never win a battle against the Clan. 

Perhaps, if Drustic and the Grandfather had both refused to let Drem leave…. But no, then they would all be treated as outcasts. Besides, Drem would never agree to stay. Drem, who has never once looked at the high wall towering in front of him and thought, “Why should I need to climb this?” Drem has only ever thought of how he will do it and how he will reach the safe, sunlit place on the other side. 

Blai does not have a wall in front of her, only an endless, gray twilight to which no sunshine will ever come.

*

It is five days after Drem has gone to Doli and the sheep. Blai is kneeling by the threshold, grinding corn. Her hands know the rhythm, know the heavy, smooth weight of the stone, and so her mind wanders to a place where it has often gone, a place she tries to keep secret, although she suspects Sabra knows of it.

In this place, Blai’s life does not depend on the pity and tolerance of others. She is always older here, the mistress of her own house. She weaves cloth on a loom, and the eggs she collects from the hens are her own to eat or trade with as she wills. She lingers in the road to laugh and exchange gossip with a neighboring woman. Sometimes there is a girl-child on her hip. A girl-child with grey eyes flecked with gold. 

Blai always knew it was stupid to like Drem as she did. If he succeeded in his wolf-slaying, he would wear the Warrior Scarlet, and he would take a wife from among the Tribe—one of the girls like Rhun, fair and tall. And if he did not succeed, he would be dead.

But now—now a third path has appeared. And yes, it would not be quite like she had dreamed. But Blai would not mind living among the Half People. She would not mind keeping a fire for Drem and having lamb stew waiting for him when he came down from the High Chalk. The Half People would not care if the two of them married, and now the Tribe would not— _could not_ —object either. 

The dream lasts until sheep shearing. Until Drem speaks in a harsh, savage tone and tells her they are no longer of the same hearth. It is plain to her that he will never want her to join him on the High Chalk. 

The encounter is still fresh in her mind that night as she sits by Sabra and helps wind yarn into a skein. Her eyes sting, and she must take several deep breaths, thinking of Drem’s flushed, furious expression. 

“It is better that you forget him,” Sabra says, glancing at Blai and then back at her work. 

So Sabra does know. Blai has been obvious, pitifully obvious. Humiliated, she clenches her fists in her lap and whispers in a low tone, “And you, his own mother, would say such a thing?”

“He is my cub,” Sabra replies, “and I will never forget him. But there are no ties binding you together. Better that you forget and look to another.”

“There _are_ bonds between us,” Blai mutters, mutinous. “And I would not mind it. I say I would not mind it, to live among the Half People. I would be no more a stranger there than I am here.”

“And I, who am his mother and know him best, say that he would never stand for it. Think you that he would let go of his pride? Never. And he would see it as adding to his shame, to bring a girl to live with him there.” 

It is true, and she cannot deny it. 

Sabra sighs, looks at her, and then reaches out to smooth down a strand of Blai’s dark hair. “To him, the Clan and honor are all, and that will not change.”

Blai knows that like her, Sabra does not care about the Clan. Once, when she was a young girl, Sabra probably thought differently. But then she lost her husband to the Clan’s quarrel with another tribe, and her youngest child was born with one arm trailing behind him, the broken wing of a bird. 

To become a Clan warrior, to become a man, you must do certain things. This is the way of life. Unquestioned.

But when there is doubt that the child you cradle to your breast and sing to sleep will be able to do those things, you begin to question them. Just like when you are raised in the Clan but can never join the other girls, will never be able to take part in the rites of womanhood, because your parents were not of the Clan themselves. 

So they are alike in this, and for that reason Blai allows Sabra’s hand on her hair.

*

The next day, Blai pulls weeds in the corn plots. The sun is hot and burns against the back of her neck as she stoops to the ground. She finishes a row and straightens, then pauses, eyes widening. Vortrix is walking toward her, his stride determined, his face set. 

She cannot think why the chieftain’s son would be coming to see her. But she should have known, for there is only one thing they hold in common.

“You have seen him?” Vortrix demands as soon as he is within speaking distance. “You spoke with Drem yesterday, did you not?”

“Yes,” she admits, slow and unwilling. 

“And?” Vortrix pins her with his eyes, filled with frank, honest concern.

Blai licks her lips. She knows that if not for Vortrix, Drem would be dead. She also knows that Drem loves Vortrix. Many times she has watched them, laughing and smiling together, taking Whitethroat and going to hunt. Now she has seen Drem when Vortrix could not. Their meeting, even though it hurt her in the end, is _hers_. 

“He was well enough,” she finally says. 

Vortrix makes an impatient noise. “Well enough? And what do those words mean? He was not—he could not—be content, surely.”

“Of course not,” Blai snaps, offended on Drem’s behalf. It loosens her tongue, and she continues, “He asked after his mother and then made a fool of himself with a sheep. It made him angry.”

Vortrix’s expression softens. “Ah, yes, that is like him. He can never stand to look the fool, can he?” 

Blai does not reply, digging her toes into the warm, soft earth.

“He did not say anything about me, then? A message, perhaps?”

“No,” Blai says, and she feels a moment’s satisfaction as Vortrix’s face falls. 

“I should not expect it, after what I did.” Vortrix sighs, then turns and raises his head, looking up at the high green hills. “In the winter, I will join the Wolf Guard, and I shall see him then.”

She will not be able to join the Wolf Guard. And even if she could, Drem would probably turn his face from her.

Vortrix lays a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she startles, looks to see that he is smiling at her. “If there is a message you want me to bring to him, you must tell me.”

“I do not think he would want to hear it,” she says. The words come out of her mouth unbidden. Vortrix’s open kindness has disarmed her into honesty. 

He laughs, a soft, rueful sound. “I suppose he has said something cruel. Do you know, after I thrust my spear between him and his wolf, he told me I would have done better to let him die? And I am sure he is angry at me still. Bitter and angry.”

“Then there is no point in me giving you a message. Not if he has turned his back on you.” Those are also cruel words, but she remembers the way Drem smiled at Vortrix and says them anyway.

But once again, Vortrix surprises her. He shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is calm and sure. “I cannot believe those are the only feelings in his heart. Surely you have seen how he uses hard words in place of the shield he cannot hold? The bond between us cannot be broken so easily.”

She stares at him and then blinks, reaching out to touch a stalk of green corn. “Perhaps that is true for the two of you.”

“And you. Have I not seen his face when he looks your way?” Vortrix laughs again. “I imagine I look much the same when I make moon-eyes at Rhun.” 

Blai flushes but cannot believe him. Drem has never looked at her like that. 

“We can’t give up on him, Blai,” Vortrix tells her, and now she grows angry, for she has never given up on Drem. It is Drem who refuses to let her care for him because of his stupid honor and pride. 

“I did not ask for your counsel,” she says in a stiff voice.

“Sa, sa, so you did not.” Vortrix steps away, preparing to leave, but then pauses. “But remember that there is yet hope, Blai. One day I will be the Chief.”

Blai watches him as he walks down the road toward the village. It comes to her that Vortrix is like her and Sabra in this. He looked at that high wall, the wall between the dark Outside and the light Inside and thought “no, there must be another way.” The only difference is that Vortrix had actually managed to knock down a bit of that wall. Not enough to bring Drem to the other side, but enough to keep him from vanishing into the grey twilight where Blai lives. 

*

As it happens, Drem does find his way over that wall. He vaults over it on a dark winter night amid the howls of the wolves. 

At first, when the men bring Drem to the house-place, and she and Sabra wash the blood from his wounds and bind them, Blai is filled with a fierce joy. But as the days pass, it fades. She watches Vortrix sit at Drem’s side, and she knows that nothing has changed for her. Vortrix and Drem are both in the sunlight now, but she remains in the twilight. 

Beltane comes, and Blai does not attend the festivities, preferring the quiet dark. Better not to see the young men and girls leaping over the fire. Better not to see what life is like for those who belong to the Clan. 

And then Drem arrives and speaks gently and smiles at her, and they kindle the fire together. Of course, she goes with him when he asks, when he says that he wants her by his side for always. She takes his hand and runs into a rushing wind. But as they draw nearer the gathering place and the sound of cheerful voices reaches them, Blai falters. 

Drem looks back at her, pausing, and he lets go when Blai tugs her hand away.

“They will not like it, if you jump over the fire with me,” she says. “I am not of the Women’s Side, after all.”

Drem scoffs and pushes back the hair that has fallen over his forehead. “What do I care what they say?”

“You have always cared,” Blai replies, and she laughs, a sharp, incredulous noise that Drem would say such a thing.

The old Drem would have yelled at her and left in a huff and that would have been that. But he has changed, in ways she is still learning, and he does not run away or shout angry words. Instead, he is silent for a few moments, and his hand strays to touch the scars on his shoulder.

“You are right,” he admits at last. “But I also never let their words stop me, Blai. If I had, I would have gone to the Little Dark People many years ago and been content among the sheep. I would never have even tried to slay a wolf.”

“All to gain their approval,” she retorts. “All to gain your place among the Clan. And what if taking me under your cloak makes you lose that place?”

Drem shifts, uneasy for a moment, but then he flings his head up. “I will not let that happen. And Vortrix will be on my side in this too. Let them try to stop us.” And he grins, his teeth white in the moonlight.

Blai’s breath catches, and it comes to her that she has not been quite right in her thinking about Drem and the Clan. In fighting his way over that wall, Drem has changed the place on the other side. If another boy-child with an arm like a broken wing comes along, no one will believe that he can never join the Men’s Side. They will think of Drem and know that it is possible. 

For the first time, the grey twilight that surrounds Blai begins to lighten. For the first time, she senses a sunrise on the other side of the night, brightening the horizon. 

And so she draws a deep breath and takes Drem’s hand again and lets him lead her onward.


End file.
